


Choking on the ashes of his enemy

by Saturnmond



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Animal Transformation, Cursed Kylo Ren, Curses, Fantasy Politics, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hux is Nice, Kylo Ren gets turned into a raven, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, Mages, Permanent Injury, Soldier Hux, The author loves his fantasy tropes, War, alternative universe, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-14 21:32:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13598811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saturnmond/pseuds/Saturnmond
Summary: In a land devastated by war, two kingdoms fight over complete control. Armitage Hux is already twenty-six, entirely unfit for combat and a disgrace to his father. Faced with the prospect of certain death as nothing but a mere soldier, he struggles to hold his own. Spiteful of fate, Hux dreams of ascending to the throne, unite the kingdoms beneath him and finally do what his ancestors never could: Eradicate magic once and for all.Everything changes however, when he decides to save a strange raven from certain doom. Stranger still, the raven turns out to be a cursed prince.





	1. Chapter 1

The night before battle, Hux lies perfectly still underneath his fur covers. They’re an uncomfortable weight pressing down on his body, leaving him sweltering in his own anxiety. He supresses the urge to kick them away. He cannot afford to behave like a spoiled child when everyone else is forced to face the prospect of death with no shelter against the harsh winds from the east. Although it does not seem like the soldiers of Arkanis are fretting about their impending doom as much as they should be, their voices a too loud reminder of Hux’s status of a true outsider. It is not like he particularly enjoys the company of the men either. They are terribly dull, incapable of holding a thought for ten minutes and rely too much on brutal strength. Hux knows that he is better than them, more than the blunt object with which his father may cave in the skull of an opponent.

  
Outside, one of the younger soldiers laughs heartily and Hux can’t stop the heat from creeping up on his cheeks as he imagines what they are probably talking about. Ever since King Snoke declared war upon Queen Organa and her land of heathens, bets have been made about his untimely death. How many seconds until the pampered bastard of a respected war general goes down. Hux has seen them smirk at his slight frame whenever they stop at a river to wash the grime of their skin, every delicate freckle on his shoulders like a compromising piece of evidence in the never ending case against him. Not made for battle. Not made for war. Not made to hold his own against a dashing enemy, let alone a skilled mage…

Hux has decided to prove them wrong.

His hand slides underneath the dirty pillow where the pile of parchment seems to be waiting for the touch of his quill. Contentment settles in the hollow between his ribs as he feels the rough texture against his fingertips. For a second, he considers scrambling up to light a candle but the noise outside halts him in his tracks. Apparently, his supposed comrades have discovered the bottles of wine and are now occupying themselves drinking their worries away. He hears them chuckling quietly, glasses clinking when they toast to staring death in the eye like heroes. Hux can’t help but scoff at that. Glory will not find them here, cowering in the dirt like ants while an unseen force tries to snuff out their lives. This is not how he plans on leaving this world: Bleeding out underneath a rotting corpse while pretending the approaching darkness might lift him up to a place that is warm and save and all his.

As a child, he thought differently. Whenever he could sneak away, he grabbed a wooden sword and swung it at a tree repeatedly until he cried from exhaustion. Training, he called that disgrace of a display. He had really thought that he would grow big and strong and somewhere along this honourable path he would stop imagining his own face in the swirling patterns of the lifeless wood. Strike down his insecurities, he never could. Father might love him if he learned to hit harder than the back of his hand.

  
Unfortunately, the back of Brendol’s hand had hit harder. Always.

  
No, Hux thinks, resting his head back again. If he wants to survive, he can not get distracted by childish sentimentalities. The letter has to wait. He promises himself his fear would also remain in this stuffy tent, stored away underneath this pillow. Maybe he won’t need to return to both when the battle is over.

 

He must have fallen asleep at some point because when the screeching startles him awake, the soldiers have gone to their tents, leaving the camp to drift in the foreboding silence of upcoming destruction. Hux sits up, his tongue feels like it’s made from cotton and the stale sweat on his skin now makes him shiver in the night breeze. What was that? He leans forward, carefully listening. Everything is eerily quiet outside, heart pounding against his chest like a prisoner. His mind drags him to a rumour he had heard once about Organa possessing a dragon. A gigantic beast in shackles who will not turn against his captor but burn down through flesh and bones of whole armies. Hux tries not to imagine nothing in between himself and twenty tons of destruction but a tiny sword in his shaking hands. Ridiculous! None of the sort has been confirmed. Maybe he should have sipped from the wine to calm his nerves after all.

Almost ready to except the noise as a sign of his useless imagination, he turns on his side. Just when approaching sleep soothes the ripples of worry in his mind, the screech returns. More out of common sense than certainty, he decides this can’t be a dragon. It sounds too small. Too frightened, too.

  
Despite his better judgement, he pushes himself up and grabs for his pants before stepping outside. The night air usually smells clean, but the war has made everything reek of ash and death. Hux is convinced he can taste the fires of the burning village they spotted on their way here, the scorched corpses here to haunt them for their failures, but it’s a ludicrous assumption. They had passed that place days ago, the wind probably even blowing into the wrong direction. It’s nerves, plain and simple. Thinking it makes him feel silly for following an unidentified noise to the edge of the camp. The roaring laughter of his comrades would be nothing against the piercing stare of his disappointed father.

When the next screech comes, Hux is almost prepared to pay it no mind and return to his tent like he ought to. However, this time it is accompanied by a panicked flapping of wings that make him perk up. Suddenly, he knows what he has been hearing and he wants to slap himself for the foolishness of it all. Of course, he’d be idiotic enough to be lured out of the camp by a fucking raven! He turns his head toward the noise but is greeted by an unexpected, no, an impossible sight: There sits the raven fluttering frantically inside a cage which is dangling from a branch as if this is exactly where it belongs. What in all the world’s name is going on?

Hux feels hesitant to approach the cage. Whoever set it up there must still be nearby. Well, if it is a trap it certainly is the most creative one he has ever encountered. Not to forget completely useless. How would anyone even know someone would pay mind to the frightened noises of a bird? A forest is surely not to be considered the ideal place to set up such a ridiculous design. Suddenly Hux feels ready to sleep.

Apparently, the bird thinks otherwise. As if having read his mind it starts to flap its wings more wildly, rattling the cage until it tumbles toward the ground. Hux jerks forward without thinking and catches the cage in his arms. The weight is unexpected and almost pulls his shoulders out of their sockets.  
“Hush! Be quiet or I’ll make soup out of you!” As he puts his face closer to the bars, the bird picks for his nose angrily. Hux barely avoids mutilation by a surprisingly sharp beak. “I should have let you fall, you avian ingrate!” Maybe he should be doing exactly that, if the way the raven is flapping its massive wings inside his confinement didn't seem so off. Lopsided somehow. He is not an expert on animal care, yet even he knows, that the cage is clearly too small for such a big bird. Maybe whoever did this, isn’t as much an opponent in war but just cruel.

The raven seems to notice his hesitation because it goes very quiet all of a sudden. Its eyes like black pearls, staring at Hux’s face with striking intelligence. _Help me_ , they seem to say. If animals unexpectedly developed the abilities to form complex requests, of course. Tired of his delusions and the pointless itch to save any broken creature he stumbles upon, he finds himself unable to let that bird die out here regardless. Even if he doesn’t know the details, he knows this: That raven is not what his previous owners had in mind. Its incapabilities, of whatever sort, were enough to leave it to die in the most cruel and prolonged way. Maybe it has to do with the injury on its crooked wing, maybe it was just…useless. Hux sighs deeply, having already made up his mind.

“You are to be quiet and good, do you understand? If you cause trouble, I’ll wring your neck.”  
The bird clicks its beak, offended. Oh, as if it has any right to be! “I am making a complete idiot out of myself for you. You’d fare well to oblige.”

\--

Opening the cage proves to be more difficult than anticipated. There is no door, no opening, even the floor does not seem to be removable upon further inspection. Hux feels himself grow agitated with the impossibility of it all. How can something like this even exist?  
He shoots the bird inside an accusing look: “How did you get in there in the first place?”  
The bird flaps its wings threateningly, opening its beak attempting to let out one of its deafening screeches. Hux interjects, feeling panicked: “Shush! If needless complaining was able to bend metal, you would have freed yourself by now, don’t you think?!”  
Strangely, the bird complies, dark eyes too focused on Hux’s face. It’s not like he isn’t used to being the object of scrutinizing stares but he can’t help wondering: Where did he go wrong to find himself at the receiving end of a bird’s scepticism?

  
It is not until he steals tools from the supply chest in the middle of the night, shivering in his thin night shirt, that he fully realizes the extent of his transgression. Is he really going to waste time and resources to save an abandoned bird, probably locked away by magic anyway? Careful containment like this seems odd for such a harmless animal, so there must be a reason for it. Hux is not creative enough to come up with a properly scary scenario in which a fucking bird tears apart his entire squadron but he is not beyond suspicion either. Rightfully so, if one considers how sly mages can be. It is this unholy power running through their veins, corrupting their hearts to evil deeds. They do not care for order, nor for rules or the lives they meddle with.  
When Hux was four years old, he had to learn the hard way to never expect mercy from a mage. Also, to never trust the world to make things right without his interference. There is no justice unless it’s man-made.

  
“Armitage!”

  
The voice knocks into him like a fist and somehow, he is surprised when he doesn’t immediately fall over. His hands cramp up around the saw-handle, while his heart pumps fear into him. “General!”

  
Hux has outgrown his father years ago, but the man in front of him is massive, wide in a way that Hux has envied as a child but now sees as a sign of indiscipline. Brendol is nothing but a wall into which Hux has been running his whole life with ambition.  
A list of things he has to show for it: Broken bones and bruises, the ability not to cry when a stronger person dares him to in front of an impassive audience, and a growing pile of violent fantasies –some of which he plans to carry out when Hux’s reputation finally matches his physical height.  
A childish little thing, whimpering inside of him wants to duck away from the cold attention of his father, but another impulse –somehow exactly as small and helpless, forbids him to do so and he straightens his back: “Father.”  
Nothing in Hux's demeanor gives away the unusual circumstances of their meeting: The general’s only son found outside of his tent the night before an important battle, clutching a saw while his comrades sleep.

  
Brendol squints. The outlines of his face have become blurry years ago, pink splotches blooming on his fleshy cheeks, but he manages to seem threatening regardless, his eyes too small to hold any kindness.

“What are you doing here, boy?”

Hux’s nose twitches. Brendol has never been a subtle person, too eager to assert his dominance in ways that tend to make him look desperate and insecure. Nevertheless, his cruel remarks are effective on Hux in ways he could never admit to himself, poking that weeping thing cowering inside his chest until it starts wailing in agony.  
“I was about to return this item to its rightful place. It seems to me as if your soldiers had too much fun causing disorder within the camp. Figures, seeing as they’re drunk while on duty.”

He can see Brendol’s hand twitch. Even though he knows he is safe, Hux’s mouth dries up. The times of his father’s fist coming down on him whenever disappointment or mood compelled Brendol to do so, are long over. As a soldier, a possible heir to his position, Brendol is forced to treat him as such, reducing his abuse to cutting remarks or hateful sneers. Hux swallows audibly, waiting. Surely the general would not cause a scene in hearing distance of his men.

“Be careful how you talk to me. My patience is not endless.”

“Yes, Sir.” Somewhere along the way, Hux has learned that the right amount of sarcasm in his tone is just enough to convey distaste without provoking his father’s anger too much.

“You will ride up front tomorrow.”

The saw almost slips out of his hands, fingers trembling. Rage boils up in him, blistering his pounding heart. Of course, he would do that. Why put up with a disappointment when you can profit from a supposed hero’s death? His corpse, wrapped in the Arkanian flag would be worth more to Brendol than every breath his rotten offspring ever took. This is not fair. He has always followed orders, always tried!

  
“Do you have something to say, Armitage?” I dare you, boy. _Give me a reason._

  
Hux doesn’t do him the favour. Chest swelling, he shakes his head. Calmly. “No, Sir. It will be an honour to bring victory.” He will not die. Will not. Will never.

Brendol leaves him then without another word. There is bile on his tongue, when worry finally settles deep in his stomach.

\--

“Stop squirming, you’re making it worse.”

  
Hux sits on his furs, trying to convince this god forsaken creature to accept his help. He never would have thought that wrestling a bird into submission could be this difficult –or that he would be ever interested in doing so in the first place. If his comrades could see him now, they’d have a riot. Armitage Hux has finally found his calling: Caretaker of stray and useless animals.  
He forces himself to shove his humiliation aside: The bird is in worse condition than he thought and it tucks at his heartstrings in unexpected (and unwanted) places. The injuries on its wings are extensive, feathers flying everywhere as the raven tries to scramble away from Hux’s admissions. There is blood on his nightshirt already and a sickening crunching noise in every twitch. The wings are gigantic and the raven flails more when Hux attempts to grab them for inspection, conveniently hitting him in the face. Naturally.

“Will you stop? Here!” Hux shoves the gauze into the raven’s face. He doesn’t feel particularly patient at the moment and he could imagine spending his last hours more effectively. He also can’t help but take it personally when the raven pecks at him once more, just for good measure.  
“Ow! Look! Gauze. Ointment. This is normally for humans so be a little thankful. I could throw you to the soldiers right now. I am sure you’ll make an adequate hangover-breakfast!”

  
That seems to injure some kind of bird-pride as the raven immediately returns to its previous attempts at stabbing Hux with renewed vigour, beak jabbing at his arms until Hux flinches away shrieking. “You stupid little—” Hux sighs before he rubs his temples. He just wants to sleep. “Look, I know you’re just an animal…You probably have no idea what is happening right now. You’re scared that I’ll hurt you more. I know…But you will never fly again if you don’t start to trust me a little. Do you understand that?”  
The bird crooks its neck quizzically. Hux feels stupid for trying. “Of course, you don’t.”  
To his surprise, the bird complies. For a minute, he feels speechless. A strange emotion washes over him as that shivering body presses himself against his lap, seeking warmth.

  
It turns out, this little creature has the ability to be perfectly pleasant when it’s not planning to slice Hux’s arteries open. It only glances at him suspiciously before letting Hux clumsily administer the ointment to its gaping wounds. He isn't sure if he will be able to set the bones back into their place which worries him. Whoever is responsible for this knows exactly how deep to slice to cause the maximal amount of pain without outright killing their victim. Hux supresses the urge to gag a little, remembering the broken bodies of dying soldiers, clutching at oozing wounds in dirty sickbays they would never leave again. He tries not to think of himself lying there with no hand to hold, mind full of regrets as Brendol stares down on him, pleased with himself. His fingers start to tremble enough that the bird flinches away once more.

“Sorry.” Hux mumbles, more to himself. “I am not a doctor, let alone for animals. Don’t act so spoiled. When I was little, no one treated my wounds like this.”

The bird stretches its neck, trying to get a better look at Hux’s face. Like a child waiting for the rest of a goodnight’s story.

“Stop staring at me. There is nothing more to it. I apparently wasn’t worth much gauze.”

Those beady eyes never leave him, however, and Hux can’t help but shudder at the humanness of its attention. It's eerie. Nervousness now caught in his mind like a fly bumping into the walls of his skull.

“There. All done.”

Hux doesn’t know what he expects of the bird when he finishes patching its wounds, but surely not for it to get comfortable on his pillow.

“Now, that’s just wishful thinking. Get off.”

Nothing happens. Hux groans, shoving the bird aside just enough to rest his own head there, before he leans over to blow out the candle.  
He doesn’t know what compels the creature to come even closer then and nestle its warm body in the crook of Hux’s neck as if trusted with the precious task of protecting his pulse, but he decides he is too tired to mind, falling asleep with his cheek pressed against black feathers.

  
\--

  
Morning comes too early, and it reeks of rotten blood and the soft dirt of fresh graves. The soft glow of an early sun only a reminder of the horrors soon to be illuminated. The soldiers around him seem to contemplate their fate, jaws set, as their horses carry them away from safety and pre-battle bravado. Hux looks back one last time, the raven sitting patiently on top of his tent like a beacon he can use to find his way home.  
Before he left, Hux has fed the bird with cheese and stale leftover bread from dinner the night before, assured by the fact that ravens are omnivores and that it’s not uncommon to come across one of them digging through garbage cans. Or corpses, a voice whispers more quietly, his mind already having turned back to the grave lazily.  
“You will wait for me, alright? I will be back eventually.” It has almost not been strange, talking to the animal, petting its head now with two fingers while it devours its meager meal. Hux has told himself that it must be his return to pesky old habits: _Hug yourself close, console yourself with gentle words as if spoken by someone who cares, leaning over you before breathing a good night’s kiss onto your wet cheeks. Armitage, wake up you fool._

After the camp disappears behind another corner, Hux is not so sure of that anymore. The raven always seems so attentive, its soft noises of encouragement soothing the lonely edges of Hux’s soul by giving him a reason to survive other than spite. Someone must feed this animal and if Hux doesn’t return, it would surely perish from its injuries. Maybe still waiting on top of that tent like a forsaken child.

 

Although completely inane, the thought frees him from Brendol, separates his breath from that hateful, bellowing voice in a way that presses confidence into his bones even as he rides closer to bloodshed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, the chapters will get progressively longer, so be prepared.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an undetailed hint at past rape in this chapter. It is not major, but I wouldn't want to send you in without a warning.

Hux has never liked Canady, an arrogant man his father’s age who never dared to outright reprimand the son of his superior, but who has stood there countless of times while someone else did the job swiftly, painfully. Whenever possible, Hux tried to avoid him, shooting a warning glance in passing to remind Canady of his inferiority. The old man always narrowed his eyes, angry at the possibility of receiving an order from the weakling-bastard.  
  
Despite everything, Hux feels the warmth drop out of his body as Canady spits blood at him with his last, gurgling breath.  
  
He is still staring at Canady’s muddy eyes, vacant of all hatred now, when realisation sinks in: He is going to die. Chaos has erupted all around him. The foul stench of blood and burned bodies crawls up his nose, while his fingers dig into the soft, wet earth where he has fallen minutes ago. As if this could anchor him to the world before he floats away completely. His breath is forcing its way out of him in panicked little, gasps that make him feel like his sternum must be splintered where the mage had slammed the staff into him.

He is dying. This is the end…Canady’s open mouth is a bloodied cave from which the end is leering at him.  
  
A man runs and runs across the battlefield, burning like a living torch and unable to do anything but scream into the void he’s probably seeing until he’s not. Hux tries to crawl away undetected, slowly dragging the aching weight of his body through the mud. He won’t make it. Can’t make it. To his right, someone sobs violently, tears bubbling out like an unspoken agreement of compliance: Yes, if death comes they will be good and follow, treading softly. Meanwhile, the trampling steps of hundreds of mages shake the ground beneath him, slashing the bravery out of chests, striking his soldiers with lightning so that their corpses keep on twitching long after their hearts have stopped. No prisoners. Only victory and gore. No. No, please…He can’t die yet!  
  
Hux has never felt the staggering rush of euphoria upon survival, has never gazed at the orange light of the morning sun with more than cold indifference, never known what useless pleasure a simple kiss could give him, not even has he finished the last sentence in his silly little letter which would forever be waiting underneath that dirty pillow now. Waiting. Someone is waiting for him, he can not die. Please…  
  
Hux wakes up with a wordless shout.  


He is soaking wet, the memory of his first battle drying on him like old sweat. With his knuckles pressed into the sockets of his eyes, he tries forcing the dream back into his skull where he would bury it deep into the crumpled folds of his mind. A place where all the pain in him resides, probably rotting by now.  
His tongue feels like a dead thing itself and the inside of his cheek is bleeding where he had bitten down on it in fear. Hux closes his eyes, drawing in the night air which still smells faintly of ash and smoke from the pyres. Only yesterday they have burned another batch of deceased soldiers. The sickbay would soon be empty again…  
  
Hux turns his head to the side when the raven gently nudges at his cheek. There is something uncharacteristically concerned behind its intelligent eyes, which Hux finds particularly hard to bear. It is, of course, more likely that he is still projecting, secretly holding on to the childish idea of sharing his worries with someone completely free of prejudice. What a ridiculous delusion! This holds especially true for the stupid raven who is the worst possible candidate for such a role. In fact, Hux believes he has never encountered such a judgmental little beast before!  
  
“Don’t look at me like that,” his voice sounds raspy, lips grasping at words awkwardly “Do I look like I need pity from an animal? I might as well bend the knee for Organa’s army of murderous wizards!”  
  
This, however, earns him an angry jab to the forehead. Hux rears backwards, almost rolling out of his fur-covers completely.  
  
“Ow! You fucking—” Exasperated, Hux decides to give up before this blows up into a full-fledged battle scene. He is feeling insane enough as it is and doesn’t need to be caught up in a duel of wits against a bird. Whatever would he tell himself if he loses?! Seeing how his mind has been slowly collapsing in on itself ever since he returned, it wouldn’t exactly surprise him if he lost the capability to hold his own against a dumb animal. So much for his career…

The raven looks pacified by Hux’s resignation. It is probably congratulating itself to an easy victory. Or it is just a damn bird with no advanced cognitive functions whatsoever and he is a lunatic.

Outside he can already see the grey beginnings of an early-morning sky eating at the horizon. It’s already too late to go back to sleep since he’s expected to turn up for communal breakfast after sunrise. The thought of just rolling around becomes even more unappealing with the images of dying warriors rushing through his mind whenever he blinks. Instead, he decides to fish the crumpled parchment from his dirty pillowcase, carefully smoothing them out with one hand before reaching over for his quill.  
The bird blinks at him curiously and hops closer without otherwise disturbing the concentrated silence of Hux’s writing. Hux dully notes that he appreciates this.  
  
For a while there is nothing, but the warmth of the raven’s body pressed against his naked upper arm and the quiet scratching of the quill. In moments like these, Hux dares to indulge in silly fantasies, safe within the confinement of his own mind: He imagines his letter to be read one day, a pair of eyes he has never actually seen, hopping from word to word, maybe leaking with regret. She would love to hear from him, clutch at her chest and swallow down a tearful sob. Maybe she’d ask him to meet, just so she can grab his shoulders and squeeze his arms. She’d be so proud, close to bursting. Shamefully, Hux admits that he would like that very much; Tell her everything about his life. Explain himself to her as if his sole existence needs justification.  
Somehow Hux’s face becomes so scrunched up that it’s almost painful to relax his brows when he finally decides to stuff everything back to where it belongs.  
  
The raven makes an ugly squawking sound before rubbing its beak lovingly against Hux’s side. It probably craves attention, aware of the routine by now: Hux would wake in a cold sweat and waste his time writing for a while, before redressing its wounds with steady efficiency. It has become easier to handle the little animal by now, their angry bickering also turning into a familiar feeling which he uses more and more to hide from recurring night terrors.  
  
When he scoops the bird into his arms to wash out the crusted blood from its feathers, he feels strangely comforted. He is suddenly struck by a childhood memory, as if a hasty movement had reopened a sore wound somewhere inside of him.  
  
He had been very small, maybe four, and almost on his knees with desperation. A pet, he wanted a pet. Something to protect and call his own when nothing else could ever be. Of course, his request had been met with Brendol’s fist so that he never dared to ask again. It wasn’t even an animal in particular that was so appealing to him, but just the thought of having any companion at all.  
Although he is more in control of himself now, the need to be close to something has been recently coming back to him in short powerful waves, making him pet the bird excessively and glide his hand along smooth, black feathers. The raven seems to enjoy this. He starts to rub his head against Hux’s palm, greedily asking for more.  
  
“Ha. You’re so needy. How about being a little humble?”  
  
The bird looks up at him in quiet disapproval, as if it is Hux who is insolent for suggesting such a thing. He immediately nuzzles Hux’s hand harder just to be contrary. What an idiot!  
  
“I will be back after breakfast. You know the rules by now. No leaving, no disturbing the order, no senseless screaming.”  
  
Hux squints, unsure if this rude little creature has just rolled its eyes at him. Which would not only be incredibly unthankful but also physically impossible! Concerned, Hux reminds himself not to get lost in that little play of make-believe he has constructed around his relationship to the bird. It’s a crutch to cope with trauma, nothing more. A disgraceful little habit he only allows himself to entertain because the alternative of dealing with it all by himself makes his stomach eat itself, and every thought float away from his head.  
  
\---  
  
Everyone is exceptionally quiet at breakfast, seemingly occupied with their own variation of what happened on the battlefield a week ago. They have lost enough men to greatly diminish their army and consequently extinguish any trace of bold confidence. Or any belief in victory whatsoever. Some seats are poignantly left empty, serving as a makeshift memorial which inspires many men to stare at them between listless bites of hard cheese.

  
Hux considers their loss a tragedy too, albeit not because of some reckless imbeciles who were unable to escape with their bodies intact, but for the deep shame he feels over losing against Queen Organa. As the General’s son, he sees this as a personal failure, burning its way into the core of his convictions. She has allowed mages to roam the lands without supervision for far too long, refusing to hold them on a leash, violent murderers now free and very much capable of sweeping the life out of entire villages –proven by the many dead Arkanians now finally at peace in their graves.

“No butter. Again!” Stridan slams his fist against the table, startling everyone.  
  
“I think we have worse problems than butter…” Thanisson mutters, lips still pressed against the rim of his water bottle. Hux knows him as one of the slighter soldiers, still babyfaced at twenty and inexplicably free of the prejudices that seem to haunt his every step.  
  
“It’s not only the butter! It’s everything!” There is a muscle twitching in Stridan’s left cheek as he chews on his opinion for a while. He looks like a spooked horse, ready to flee and about to remorselessly trample everyone in his path.  
  
“We are going to fucking die here!” He blurts, looking surprised with himself “Canady is dead. I saw Rodino –He had no chance! Impaled on a fucking staff…Didn’t even see it coming, the poor bastard! Yesterday, Weel died in the sickbay like some dirty dog! You should have seen him –he didn’t- He wasn’t even lucid! I can’t do this anymore! How can you stuff yourself and wait for them to get you, too? How…” Stridan trails off, lips quivering.  
  
His outburst stuns everyone. Mitaka sits next to him, head bowed. It annoys Hux how the man tries to shrink in on himself while ripping apart precious rations of bread with trembling fingers.  
  
“Am I assuming correctly that this is a plan of desertion in the making, Stridan?” Hux’s eyes are hard. He has no empathy for traitors, no use for grown men who can’t control themselves and cry without shame like children. If not stopped, he’ll drag the entire squad with him into madness. Hux straightens his back: “Is this a confession, Stridan?”  
  
Stridan looks taken aback. He doesn’t answer, helplessly glancing at his comrades. Maybe he is waiting for one of them to burst into laughter like they always do behind Hux’s back. This time, no one comes to his aid.  
  
“Answer me!” Hux barks. He’s alarmed upon hearing his father’s voice, until he notices -to his horror- that it’s coming from his own mouth. His ears are ringing, he is suddenly standing. How did that happen?  
  
“No!” Stridan hesitates, “No, I am of course not –what are you even…” He slumps a little, ashamed of himself. Rightfully so, Hux thinks.  
  
“Good. We’ll see if cutting your rations in half will make you more thankful for what you have.”  
  
Hux returns to his breakfast then, even though he hates eating, hates this war, hates the fact that they just can’t win. He wants to puke but doesn’t. He wants to scream but keeps his mouth shut. He wants to personally reach into every mage’s body and rip their rotten hearts out for causing so much suffering. But he, too, is powerless and desperate, tied to this table instead.  
  
They are all silent again afterwards.  
  
\---

Caught between the indignant glances of supposed comrades, and his own occupation with what had just happened, it takes him longer than anticipated to return to his tent. By the time he arrives with stolen food hidden in his shirt, he is half-expecting the bird to have gone on a hunger fuelled destruction spree. Nevertheless, when he shoves the flaps of the entrance aside, the scenario takes him off guard, grabbing at his throat like a fist.  
The letters have been pulled from their spot underneath his pillow and neatly splayed out in a row, page by page, vomiting his words into the world. The raven is sitting atop the blankets, its long, pointed beak moving from one line to the next as if examining the contents.  
  
Hux surges forward to tear the letters away, startling the creature enough to attempt a pathetic flap of its broken wings. It screeches in agony before weakly flopping back onto the furs. Hux winces in sympathy but remains on his knees, gathering the parchment protectively against his chest. Paralyzing terror seizes him when he considers the possibility that this might not have been the raven’s doing but someone else’s. Isn’t everyone keen on bringing Brendol’s bastard down a notch or two?  
  
Stridan would of course be an obvious suspect, seeing the complete lack of shame over his treacherous streak and the visible anger for being punished accordingly. Sickened by the image of Stridan putting his grimy paws all over his most intimate thoughts, he swears the man will regret underestimating the lengths to which Hux is willing to go to save face. His eyes dart around the tent wildly, determined to find any evidence to support his suspicion and start plotting an inevitable revenge, when he notices the raven slowly inching away from him.  
The sight is incriminating in unexpected ways and enough to convince him that Stridan has nothing to do with it.  
  
Head tucked in and feathers ruffled, the raven resembles an overly large, black cotton ball whose eyes stick out like glistening buttons. Judgemental. Eerily enough, he suspects something uncomfortably self-aware in them, beyond anything he can reasonably explain.  
  
Hux finds himself unable to deny the shame dribbling down on him like rain. It slowly washes away the last remnants of panic induced paranoia, revealing some sort of wounded irrationality hidden at the core of his frantic behaviour. Hux is left feeling overly exposed in front of this bizarre creature, more than naked, where its knowing gaze peels away every layer of false confidence like skin. Suddenly he’s five years old again, small and incapable, at the mercy of someone who can reach into his chest, pull a weapon from his heart and point it at him whenever they want. The raven doesn’t look away, cautious but unafraid, making Hux wonder why he is starting to feel like he has betrayed some fragile trust between them.  
  
“Those are mine!” Hux says, sounding like a stubborn child, even to himself.  
  
The raven doesn’t move away anymore, nor does it start to attack Hux like it used to. Instead, it nestles down onto the fur-covers more comfortably, its eyes calmly demanding a better explanation. Apparently, Hux’s defence wasn’t good enough to make up for the fact, that the ham and apple-slices he had brought are now scattered on the floor.  
  
“What do you want? I am not justifying myself in front of you.”  
  
The raven doesn’t spare Hux any recognition aside from a dismissive click of its beak.  
Hux scoffs in return, hoping to sound detached and dignified–even though it is admittedly difficult to conjure a feeling of natural superiority while trying to impress a damn bird.  
  
“Oh, well then…Feel free to pout all you want. It won’t change the fact, that you are the one who overstepped a line.” Hux rises to his feet, careful this time to put the letters inside of a wooden box that normally rests in the corner of his tent, untouched. He is embarrassed by the intensity of his reaction, blood pooling warmly in his cheeks, ears glowing like the end of a mage’s staff. He hates the comparison and chastises himself for wasting so much emotional energy on nothing.  
  
“I’m leaving again.” He curtly gestures to the food scattered on the ground “You’ll be able to help yourself.”  
  
There is an urgent need to leave this stuffy tent behind. He is afraid to be followed by a weaker version of himself, a broken boy that only ever breathes in little gasps, shuddering sickly from behind the bars of his ribcage. Always on the verge of death but always hungry enough to eat away at everything he’s supposed to be. It’s the raven’s fault, he tells himself as he crosses over to the other side of the camp.

Whenever Hux believes to have choked the child along with its need to be understood, the raven breathes wordless empathy into it until it lives again.

Hux is sure this must be why he had been denied a pet as a child. He has become emotionally incontinent through it, constantly soiling himself with wrath and love and self-pity.

\--

Hux attempts to occupy himself with various tasks afterwards. First, to avoid having to go back to the tent and see that the raven has probably fluttered off to someplace else, as well as to return and find that it didn’t.  
Stranded in his own mind, he feels compelled to work with hands, like he did in his teenage years when the thought of always remaining his father’s sole source of shame had been unbearable. Back then, it was strangely comforting to see that he could make a difference, build or destroy as he pleases, no matter how unskilled a fighter, how weak a son he was. Hux returns to this place of simple contentment now as he settles in a quiet corner of the camp and starts to polish weapons and armour with unnecessary vigour, scrubbing angrily at blood stains and rust until their shine deems them worthy of royalty. He hates the acidic stench of the solution which always makes his eyes water and burns his fingerprints away, but the thought of wiping away his emotions like dirt is too enjoyable to stop.  
  
Hux is startled out of his meditational state not long afterwards by a gruff voice calling his name from behind.  
When Hux looks up, he is faced with Terex, a loathsome man whose loyalty he suspects to be completely dependable on the amount of gold he is offered. Fittingly, his visage seems perpetually frozen in what Hux can only consider the condescending sneer of a dishonest merchant. At least their dislike is mutual, thus making it easy to avoid stepping on each other’s toes around the campsite. Normally.  
  
“What is it, Terex?” Hux asks as monotonously as possible, trying to signal his disinterest in dragged out conversation.  
  
Terex however, doesn’t seem to get the message. His cocked eyebrow and raised lip are almost enough to make Hux groan, if it weren’t for his determination to remain above it all.  
  
“I wonder what you did now.” Terex says, bordering on giddy. A grotesque sight on a greying, middle-aged man of his size.  
  
Hux’s brows shoot up. Every time Terex feels joy about something, it can only mean catastrophe for everyone else. The man has always been exceptionally cruel and Hux is more than willing to believe the rumours about Terex’s attraction towards slavery.  
  
“As you can see, I was busy preparing our armoury for battle. I expect you’ll be able to join as soon as you’re done with your game of guessing?” Hux’s smile is humourless, his eyes sharp.  
  
The amusement falls from Terex’s face in an instant, tone cutting: “I am sure you have nothing to fear then, _Armitage_. Although your father doesn’t seem to be so sure about that, he was demanding your immediate presence. Seems pissed off, if you ask me.”  
  
Hux feels his limbs become numb, all blood creeping out of his arms into the cavity of his chest, cold with shock already. His heart is just swimming in the puddle for a while, drifting away from him as he stares at Terex with wide eyes. More out of spite for the satisfaction pulling at the corners of Terex’s mouth than true strength, he manages to climb back into the conversation.    
  
“Yes. Good.” Hux blinks the last bit of confusion from his face before he squares his shoulders and lifting his chin. “I will see to it, right away.”  
  
Without giving Terex the courtesy of even a simple nod, he turns around to make his way towards the largest tent at the edge of the camp. It’s bright red, ridiculously vibrant in the warm glow of the afternoon sun and guarded by two soldiers with mean faces. They make a point of examining Hux closely when he approaches, acting as if they’ve never seen him before. It is a fruitless attempt at undermining his confidence that doesn’t even faze him enough to elicit as much as an exasperated eyeroll. When he was younger, it probably would have been enough to scare him away, so that Brendol had an excuse to send his brutish minions for a quick lesson of discipline.  
  
Hux leaves them to their fittingly dull tasks.  
  
As soon as he is inside the tent, the smell of smoked ham and burnt kale invades his nose. His father is sitting at an overly heavy desk, which he insists must be wooden, despite the lack of practicality. Conveniently enough, Brendol is also the only one who is not sleeping wrapped in moldy furs, but on something akin of a real bed, a shaky construction with several soft, woollen blankets. The excessive opulence of the tent is almost ridiculous enough to make Hux sneer with disgust, if it wasn’t for the massive figure of Brendol hunched over a map, only sparing his son a quick glance upon entry.  
  
“There you are.” He grunts, pupils stiff on the western territory.  
  
“You wanted to speak to me.” Hux keeps his back straight, gaze following Brendol’s finger, as it traces a pathway through the mountains, unintentionally marking it already with some leftover grease from breakfast.  
  
“You reprimanded Stridan today, I heard.”

 Brendol sounds composed, but Hux is not foolish enough to fall for any false sense of security. His father’s mood can swing wildly within seconds, seemingly without provocation. Another reason why he is completely unfit to lead an army.  
  
“Yes, it was necessary. He was causing a ruckus which had the potential to devolve into disobedience among soldiers if not snuffed out quickly.”  
  
“I do not appreciate you making decisions by yourself, Armitage.” There was an edge to the syllables of his name, changing its meaning to an insult.  
  
Hux swallows audibly, nails digging deeply into the calloused parts of his palms. He has seen his father deal with traitors before, the persisting fear of not being respected manifesting itself in unusual viciousness. Starvation, flogging, beheadings. Hux doesn’t doubt that Brendol is itching with desire to make an example of him. Murdering his son for wrongfully assuming authority: The ultimate proof of his sturdy decisiveness.  
  
Or rather, his mindless tyranny. Brendol never dwells on terminology.  
  
“It won’t happen again.”  
  
“It better won’t!”  
  
There is a pause. Hux’s nails finally break through skin, digging into the flesh. The pain is good, it keeps him grounded as his mind wants to drift away.  
  
“I have heard you’ve been wasting your time on an animal, Armitage.”

The mood starts to shift dangerously towards an abyss, tilting underneath his feet no matter how much he struggles to keep his balance. Even if he knows better than to defy his father, there is rage boiling deep within the pit of his stomach and it’s always there, threatening to bubble up and spill right through his throat, over his lips, into his life.  
  
“It is useful.” His voice comes from somewhere next to him, but Hux has no time to wonder how he is still in control of his mouth when it feels so far out of reach. “It can be trained to deliver urgent letters and distribute information about our enemy’s whereabouts.”  
  
Brendol just laughs. “I have not given my permission for you to get a pet.”  
  
Hux has never had a particularly keen sense for justice. Even as a child, he had just always assumed rules to be unavoidable, the words of his elders to be law. He rather went to bed hungry, his fist pressed into the hollow of his stomach and keep it from rumbling, than ask for a second portion. It never occurred to him that chopping off a man’s hand for stealing a mouldy piece of cheese from the kitchen could have been anything but a legitimate action against dirty thieves and traitors. Although his face went pale when his father forced him to watch as the man desperately clawed at the ground as if it were possible to get away from the falling blade. Actions have consequences. He was too weak, so he had to suffer for it until he finally learned to be stronger.  
  
Something has changed.  
  
Hux’s heart is stopping in its tracks, blatantly refusing to keep on stomping down the path which surely will lead them to the raven’s end. He imagines Brendol giving the order to wring its neck. Bones snapping so easily underneath an unrelenting grip while the raven weakly struggles, wings fluttering in blinded panic as he caws at Hux for one last time. He suddenly wants to vomit.  
  
This…is unjust.  
  
The creature is small and helpless, like he once was. Completely dependant against its will and innocent regarding the horrendous suicide mission these old, incompetent buffoons have turned the war into.  
  
“It is not a pet, Sir. It will be an asset to us.”

“Nonsense!” Hux slams into Brendol’s tone like a brick wall. It is a harsh attempt at cutting off Hux’s tongue, and it works. He loses his voice, while Brendol speaks, towering over his adult son who averts his gaze nervously.  
“You are too soft, Armitage. I have always known. From the day I first saw you, I thought: ‘this boy’s no good.’ A useless waste of space and resources. Will eat the hair off our heads, drink our medicine like water and probably die a meaningless death in some ditch.”  
  
Hux inhales the words like poisonous gas, stinging in his throat and making his eyes gloss over. If he cries now, he will die. And the raven will perish alongside him. So, he does the reasonable thing and tries not to breath has Brendol circles him, hungry with anger.  
  
“But what did I do, Armitage? Did I give up on you when you kept on whining? When you writhed in your own disgusting weakness! No. I wanted to turn you into a man. A soldier I could be proud of.” His face is suddenly close enough to smell the rotting Kale between his teeth. “You are nothing. You are my demise, boy. I have given you too much and you are eating away at me like a disease. Don’t you think I know of your little letters to her? Your idiotic fantasies?”  
  
No. No!  
  
Hux gasps against his will, taking a step back to get away from the purple monstrosity of his father, away from the shifting dynamic that turns him into a hiding child. Although his voice is dying on his tongue, he forces an answer: “There are no fantasies, Sir.”  
  
And then Brendol’s fleshy hands are on his throat. Hux chokes as Brendol seizes him by the collar of his uniform, shaking him violently, attempting to empty the truth out of him. There is nothing he can do but whimper weakly and try not to lose his foothold.  
  
“You must think I am a moron! You must think me a fool! Don’t you think I know about how much you want to run away?” Brendol screams, spit trickling down into his beard. He wants to sink his fist into Hux’s face and break that freckled nose while his pupils keep on flickering wildly. He doesn’t get the chance to do so, however, because something in Hux has awoken. A demon growling lowly in his chest, possessing him right then and there to shove Brendol away making him stumble into the edge of his desk, gaping like a gutted fish.  
  
There is a beast from the past with the face of a boy, demanding a vengeance he never dared to take.  
  
“My mother would have probably known how to raise a child!” He snarls at his father and the beast rejoices.  
  
Brendol takes a moment to recover, face turning from pink to ashy in ugly splotches. Then, he chuckles. The mixture of contempt and satisfaction dripping from his voice slithers right into Hux’s guts where it curls into itself like a snake. Something is off. No, this is not how it is supposed to go…  
  
The man in front of him raises his upper lip, before he lowers his eyes. Hux tries to fight the urge to run as he slowly realises what is about to happen.  
  
“Do you really think your mother wanted you?” Brendol barks out another laugh. “Ha! She practically threw you at me. I did her a favour by freeing her from the responsibility of having to take care of you. She was nothing, you stupid child. Exactly as you are nothing. She should have been thankful I gave her some importance by putting a potential heir into her. Instead, she was crying about it…That should have given me a hunch right away, that you’re never going to amount to anything. Weak blood will always only give birth to weak blood.”  
  
The beast inside of Hux shrinks in fear and disgust. It is breaking down from within his heart chambers, kicking and screaming and tearing at him with self-loathing. Hux is overcome by the uncontrollable need to dig his own eyes out of his skull. He can’t. He can’t do anything to stop himself from knowing the meaning of those words.  
  
He won’t ever forget what Brendol has done to his mother.  
  
“I wanted you to be like me. But I was mistaken. Now get out of my sight, before I forget myself.”  
  
\---  
  
Hux doesn’t remember leaving.  
The candle inside of him has been blown out, extinguishing all light he needs to see until he finds himself blinking blearily into his tent. For a few seconds, Hux doesn’t know that he exists, his body suddenly a foreign and useless tool, only there to weigh him down.  
  
The raven sits with him and nuzzles his cheek, cawing quizzically. It nudges him here and there, experimentally nipping at a strand of ginger hair before deciding it is not tasty enough. When Hux doesn’t react to its satisfaction after a while, failing to praise and pet, it gladly returns to its old ways of trying to tear Hux into pieces, finally forcing him into reality.  
  
“Ow! Stop, you insufferable imbecile!”

Predictably, insults don’t make for a very good peace offering so it’s not surprising that the raven becomes more violent instead. Hux feels too heavy to struggle, too tired to fight, too wrong, too old, and much too young…Finally, he says: “Stop! I’ll read you the letters if you stop.”  
  
Under different circumstances, the way the raven immediately relents and perks up should have been a reason for concern, but it isn’t. It is a much-needed affirmation. After everything that happened today, he is perfectly ready to accept the raven as an unlikely ally to his unwanted life.  
  
The raven hovers over his arm, as if determined to read along while Hux speaks words that only ever existed in silence. It is a deeply frightening feeling, but the child-beast in him sniffs at it curiously.  
  
Let him get attached.  
  
_Dear Mother,_  
_I am aware of how unusual it might be to receive this letter of a son you probably never anticipated to hear from again, but I consider it my duty to at least attempt some sort of contact. For what it’s worth, I often find myself wondering about the person you might be._  
_Maybe your circumstances didn’t allow to raise a child, you were possibly very young when you had me and thought Brendol Hux to be the best solution to your dilemma. I do not know the reasons for leaving me behind and I do not deem myself qualified to cast any judgement. I don’t even hold a grudge towards the woman you were back then. I just want to get to know you, whatever that may mean now._  
  
He is not like his father.  
  
_You’ll be glad to know that I grew up well. I always had enough to eat and learned the most important aspects of combat strategy from a very young age. As you can imagine, it wasn’t always easy to overcome my own weakness, yet I have never once given up. I wonder if you, too, are very determined?_  
_Even though Brendol is exceptionally hard to please, which I am sure you are aware of, I am not saying too much when I tell you, I have earned his respect by now. I have always marched on, no matter the distance. I have always followed orders and trained hard, thinking you might hear of my accomplishments if they outstretched my own capabilities just enough, maybe even reaching into the outermost corners of the wilderness. Or Wherever you may be._  
  
He is better.  
  
_Maybe I have lied before. Sometimes I do feel resentment towards you. It is natural that I missed my mother, isn’t it? Very rarely, I allow myself the luxury to fantasize about the person I may have become with you by my side. Would he be a better man? Would he be a baker, kneading bread before sunrise to fill the air with pleasant sweetness? He could have been a tailor, doing his best to not poke customers with needles, but always draping them in beautiful ornaments. I would never know, and I suppose neither do you. As it is, I can’t sow, and I can’t bake. I don’t know how to create anything at all. I fear to be good at destroying. This might be worth something to someone one day._  
  
He is a weapon, not for Brendol.  
  
_Would it be impudent to say I would have wanted you here?_  
_How often am I left staring into this hand-me-down void of yours? I know nothing of you and I don’t want to think it also means I know nothing of myself._  
_What colour is your hair? Is it red like mine and Brendol’s?  Are you weak of health and prone to fever, like me? Do you also feel so helpless with anger all the time, that you can only suspect someone else has put it there for you?_  
  
But for the woman who crafted him from pain like clay.  
  
_Enough of that. I tend to get foolish and embarrassing._  
_You might want to know a little more about me, instead: I am currently fighting in the war against the Alderaanian heathens. King Snoke has personally recommended me to the higher ranks as he seems to find me quite agreeable. He has favoured me ever since I was a child and I am very thankful for the opportunities he has presented me with._  
_The war has been raging for far too long. And I want you to know that people are out here, that I am there, to fight against the dangers of magic._  
  
She will be proud of him.  
  
_If I don’t die, If I will ever be fortunate enough to meet you, I would very much like to take part in your life. Travel will be easier without mages plundering the roadside and I would be glad to escort you into the city, maybe introduce you to King Snoke himself if he finds the time. I cannot imagine the war to go on for much longer. The enemy is growing desperate and careless. They are underestimating us._  
  
For the destruction he will bring.  
  
_I can only hope that this letter will reach you one day. I have thought of the possibility that you might have a family on your own by now. Multiple siblings of mine, I have never known. Nevertheless, I urge you to consider an answer._  
  
And Brendol will die screaming.  
  
By the time he finishes reading, his tongue feels coated and dry. The raven’s breath has deepened, so Hux assumes it might have fallen asleep, but when he leans over to check, the raven locks eyes with him instead. It understands, Hux thinks unquestioning as he tips his head back into the pillow and runs his hand soothingly across its feathered back.  
  
All of this will be over soon.

\---

  
“The General is dead!”  
  
The voice echoes through the campsite and multiplies, until dozens of heads peak out of their tents, staring at the group of returning warriors. Beaten and bloody and grim, never truly leaving the battlefield even at home, maybe years later still. Some have lost limbs, some hang limply over their horses, some stare off into space trying to clean their eyes with how blue the sky is.  
  
“The General is dead!”  
  
Hux rides first, drenched in blood, his face hardened to stone.  
  
The man screams louder, announcing it for everyone to hear. Bellowing, so it pierces Hux’s mind and pins him into the feeling of pride. He tries not to smile.  
  
“The General is dead!”  
  
Long live the General.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably see, I have changed the expected chapter count from six to undetermined. This will probably be a long ride, haha.  
> The next chapter will start with Ren's POV, finally adding the romance aspect to the fanfiction.


	3. Temporary Chapter

This is a short explanation as to where I've been these past months.  
Ever since starting this fic, I finished my Bachelor's degree, started my Master's course and had two deaths in my family and friend-circle. Both of which hit me really hard.  
I am awfully sorry if some of you have lost interest in the story over the course of such a long break...However, this story is not abandoned!  
I am currently 3000 words into the third chapter and it can be expected by next thursday at the latest (Today is the 06th of December)

As soon as I am uploading the third chapter, I will delete this explanation. Hopefully, I'll be able to work on the story more consistently from now on.

Thank you for all of your kudos and encouraging words.  
Before deciding to continue working on this fic, I reread all of your comments and to be frank, that's what concinved me. I would otherwise have felt awfully embarrassed about giving it another shot after disappearing for so long.

So without you, this fic would probably be dead by now.

Thank you again!  
I hope I will see at least some of you next week for the third chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not abandoned! Not abandoned!
> 
> So sorry for the wait. Your comments truly made me keep going when I was ready to give up on this fic. Thank you so much for your encouraging words, they truly mean the world to me. I'll keep the temporary chapter up for a few more days until I'm sure that everyone has read my replies. I hope you enjoy the new chapter.

Hux is appointed General on the day Ren realises that he forgot what his face looks like.

 

Life with Hux exists on another plane, his former self slipping through the cracks that time has ripped into his soul. He had been too occupied to notice, nor did he really care – Every waking second filled with ginger hair and soft hands. When Hux wakes up gasping for breath, clutching at his chest before rolling over to stifle his sobs in that dirty pillow case, Ren is there. He just presses his beak against Hux’s face, childishly believing that he could put comfort there, too. It is then, that Hux usually shoves him away as he remembers to remain stoic and defiant. Even here, even now, but he could never fool Ren. It is not like he can do anything about it, really. So, he gleefully resorts to overly long stares. Hux will interpret them as accusing or judgemental. It suits Ren just fine since that’s not exactly wrong.

Hux can be frustrating to be around: Ren has never met someone so fixated on rules and etiquette. He is obsessed with normalcy, never wanting to step out of line. He cleans his expression carefully every morning before leaving the tent. The gods shall forbid he is ever perceived as a human being with real feelings. Ren thinks it’s unnatural and grotesque. Ironically, Hux’s treatment of the supposed pet bird have been extraordinary so far. One would think it should be easier to deal with a difficult person when you’re a bird. Everyone believes he is a dumb animal anyway, so why would anyone try to bark orders at him? However, for whatever reason, Hux doesn’t think nor act like a normal human. Especially one who claims himself to be so intelligent. He glares, he sneers, he even stoops down so low as to direct half formed insults at that innocent little creature sitting on his bedcovers. Sometimes that bastard adds insult to injury by taking his words back, too, reprimanding himself for even condescending to Ren in the first place. 

By all accounts, he should shit on Hux’s bed.

But he doesn’t. Not exactly out of self-respect for his humanity, although that does play a large part in his hesitation, but because things can be different with Hux as well. He is difficult to understand for someone Ren would have described as simple minded. He hisses under the sun and clings in the dark. The way Hux drags his trembling fingers through the feathers, stroking him so carefully…As if he was something precious. Something delicate. No one has ever done this for Ren, and it makes his little bird heart flutter. 

When Hux’s breathing has evened out and he doesn’t feel as cold anymore, he normally gets dressed. This too, has become some sort of ritual between them. Ren watches while Hux closes the golden clasps of his uniform. One after the other they click into place. He then smooths out the dark red fabric of the jacket, paying special attention to the black collar. If you ask Ren, his pants aren’t tight enough, it’s always regrettable to see his long legs disappear inside of them.

It is strangely soothing to watch him do the same things over and over. A spell, Ren could never think of casting himself. He would rather be shot by one of Hux’s moronic underlings than admit that he likes the precise movements, the efficiency of these fragile fingers. Sometimes he even wonders what else they could do…Not that this consideration would be of any use without his human body. He simply likes to torture himself like an idiot.  
Hux steps out of the tent before the break of dawn and despite his constant nagging, Ren follows him around, sometimes even daring to sit on his shoulders. He wants to smile at the idea of being carried around like this. He is turning Hux into his perfect little servant. What a shame he can’t gloat about it. There is also little revenge in turning Hux’s complaints into white noise since Hux can’t even know he does it. 

It is soothing to know that people’s eyes are not upon them as they cross over to the other side of the camp. They hurry past guards sleeping with their mouth open and their heads tipped back. A merchant hops off his carriage, trying to make some money with the horrors around them. Hux’s strides are long and with purpose. Ren wonders if this is a result of those ridiculously long legs or a trait he picked up along the lines. Maybe he tries to distract from his unimpressive figure by looking as busy as possible. 

The air smells earthy, still wet from the evening rain, which invites Ren to turn his beak towards the wind. He already misses how it feels on his bare, human skin. Spring has been slowly approaching ever since they reached the outskirts of Arkanis where pale flowers occasionally peek through the thick blankets of grass. It is nothing like the white, unforgiving snow-deserts he grew up in.

But he can’t think about that now. Because it will make him want to cry and his bird body won’t even let him do that.

Hux enters the biggest tent at the far edge of the camp now. Ren notices how he squares his shoulders, lips pressed into one thin, disapproving line. He has seen this behaviour with Leia, when she wanted to make up for what she lacked in height by staring everyone into the ground. The memory shakes him more than it should have, and he almost thinks about leaving Hux’s side to do whatever it takes to get the image of her stern face out of his mind. But he can’t. He needs to know what will happen to the country of his childhood. And his personal idiot too. 

“Report, Lieutenant Mitaka.” Hux’s voice is clipped. His hands folded behind his back as he gazes onto the map laid out before him.  
Mitaka is a mousy guy at the best of times. Now he cowers like a scared child, afraid to even meet Hux’s gaze. He reminds Ren of a dog who shows his belly to everyone, lest he might get picked on. Apparently, no one has ever told him that this is exactly the behaviour that invites mockery. If Ren wasn’t currently occupied with being a bird, he would have a ball, making fun of this tiny worm.

“S-Sir. We have word that Organa’s armies are planning to overrun our-our camp…”  
Hux furrows his brow. He doesn’t seem surprised at all, probably expected it, the paranoid fucker. His eyes are fixed on the map, Ren can almost hear the cocks turning behind that thick skull of his. “When?”

“We don’t know. Our spies have overheard soldiers discussing the strike to each other. They could not gather more information at that point of time.” If even possible, Mitaka becomes more fidgety than before. He steps from one leg to another as if ready to piss himself at the slightest noise. Ren’s feathers start to ruffle. Something is terribly wrong.

Hux seems to think the same. His face is scrunched into a sour expression. Confusion is licking at the corners of his mouth. “So, send them out to complete their mission.”

Mitaka looks about ready to faint. “That is the issue, Sir. Upon further investigation they have been discovered. Word has it, that they’re currently held captive at the campsite.”  
Ren wants to sigh deeply. Arkanis has practically lost the war already. Their army might be well-trained and mostly disciplined, but they lack intuition. When you’re fighting for your life, slicing through people and the air smells like iron and rot, you won’t remember your training. You won’t even remember your name, or who you’re fighting for. Because that won’t matter as much as living to see another day.  
Ren misses it. Not necessarily killing, even though he hardly has a problem with this. But the way his body moved on pure instinct, like someone was arranging his limbs, letting him fly through hordes of enemies with ease. It was freeing because those were the only moments he could forget, relay responsibility, shed his skin and bleed out his anxiety.

Hux's lackeys will never know what it’s like to listen to the call of magic in your veins. To answer it with a swift kill. The simple pleasure of only feeling your body. They’re ruled by their heads and ruled by their greed. How could they compete with soldiers who know how to make objects move with their mind? Even if not all of them are able to do that (very little, actually), the others will behave with more confidence.

It would be better for all if Hux just gave up to spare everyone the pain and humiliation. Being this cynical makes him feel like Han. Worn out by what he’s seen and ready to ditch whoever makes him feel bad at any given moment. He doesn’t need this. Doesn’t want it. Not now.

Hux won’t give up. Because Ren wouldn’t either.

“Tell the troops to prepare. Tomorrow, we’ll attack at the break of dawn.” Hux’s eyes are narrow, his jaw set. Who knows what he’s thinking now. He might think himself awfully clever for the decision to strike unexpectedly. He can’t possibly be blind enough to believe that it will be this easy?

Mitaka is not convinced either. He seems paler than usual and wipes the sweat of his forehead. “Y-Yes, right away, Sir.” 

Ren watches him hurry away before he turns to Hux. He cocks his head to the side quizzically.

“I know.” Hux says, slumping on a chair. “It may be a risky decision, yet we can’t just sit here and wait idly for our demise.”

Ren throws his head back and tries to put as much agreement as he can into his ‘caw’. Hux is right in this respect. Better to burn it all down than to give up. However, he can’t help but feel an emptiness growing inside of him. A deep hole, sucking in that human scream growing in his chest. Don’t do it. Don’t do it!

 

 

He dreams of softly falling snow and the voice of his mother singing a lullaby of long forgotten times. She gently combs through his hair as he clings to the windowsill staring out at those mountains which seem to loom over his childhood like silent, judgmental gods.  
He is eight and he doesn’t know any better than to cling and bury his face into her puffy sleeve, wondering where she’d been and when she’d leave again. The cold from outside has crept into his chest already, and he doesn’t know how to light a fire yet. If she goes, the scary man will take him away. Dad is standing in the doorway and he laughs. Ben likes it when Han calls him “bandit” because it makes him feel strong enough to survive. 

He wants to hear his mother whisper “angel”, too. It feels so pure, he might just believe that he will learn how to be gentle one day. The scary man is sitting in a corner. He watches them, smiling so wide his face seems too small. Ben hopes he’ll see how nice his parents are and he won’t want to hurt them anymore. Perhaps he’ll find the window of some other lonely boy instead, but the thought makes him feel like the cold has reached his heart and it knocks the wind right out of his chest.

All of a sudden, a horrible noise shakes him awake violently. Relentlessly. Ren opens his eyes as he tries to shake of the disorientation. 

Hux is screaming.

He can only assume the sort of nightmare causing Hux to scream until his lungs give out while clutching at the bedsheets, as if afraid someone would come and violently drag him away by the ankles.  
When Ren presses his beak soothingly against Hux’s hip, he is still panting, not fully awake yet. From his position, Ren can see how Hux rubs his cheeks with the dirty sleeves of his nightshirt. Hux turns away from the entrance and Ren almost turns his head to see if they somehow gathered an audience. Of course, there is no one staring at him in judgement. The embarrassment shrouds Hux like a mist, as he curls in on himself. It makes Ren want to grab his face to lick the rest of the tears off his skin. 

“I am pathetic.” Hux whispers hoarsely to himself. His voice sounds stuffy. 

Yes, Ren wants to say. You are a pathetic idiot. Stop crying.

“I shouldn’t…shouldn’t let those petty things get to me.”

Yeah, Ren answers silently. You’re not at all insulting your own intelligence by calling a deadly war petty.

Hux scoffs, as if he understood Ren any way. He finally turns around to pet Ren’s head with two fingers. It feels so good that he wants to close his eyes and imagine himself a man again, someone who’d be able to pick Hux up and carry him out of this rat-infested shit hole. 

“They probably heard me scream. I bet they’re already laughing at their general, crying like a child.”  
Let them laugh, Ren thinks. I will kill them all.

The tenderness swells in his chest until he feels twice his size. Ren shivers under the need to show affection, to speak words he could never take back and do things Hux can’t even imagine.

“Well, it’s not like I ever expected much from father’s troops.” Hux voice gains an edge that wasn’t there before. “However, they’re my troops now and I will not stand for disobedience.”

For all the mighty god’s combined, will you ever stop worrying about these idiots? 

He doesn’t know why Hux thinking about his soldiers makes him angry, but it does. It makes Hux look too small to fight in such a war, too fragile to hold a sword, and he hates it. So naturally, he stretches his neck and pulls on a ginger strand of hair. Hard.

“Ow!” Hux immediately shoves him away. Ren enjoys how Hux is glaring at him as if he’s looking at his complete equal. That’s right, you shithead. Now go to sleep, so that they won’t have to bring you back in tiny pieces tomorrow.  
It is quiet for a while, only the faint noises of wind, flapping the entrance of the tent between them. Then Hux says something unexpected and it makes Ren’s stomach churn:  
“I wasn’t even dreaming about the war…”

 

 

Hux leaves the next morning and Ren can only sit on top of his tent, like the loyal pet he is. He’s not entirely sure why he feels as if this is the last time they’ll see each other but the thought digs its teeth deep into his mind. He stares at Hux’s tiny back as it vanishes in the distance and for a second, he wants to shout after him. Hux is Han, ruffling his hair and leaving the castle, even if duties should have compelled him to stay. Hux is Leia, working herself into forgetting him. Over and over, leaving him behind so he never knows what to do with that big dumb body of his. Where to put his big, dumb heart. Where to turn to.

Still, Hux is also someone else. Someone he has not met yet. A person nesting themselves into that particularly empty spot in his life. It coincides exactly with that place that glowed up every time he opened a fairy tale book as a child. He had believed in miracles back then. Not anymore.

Ren hops off the tent to inspect the leftovers from breakfast. Maybe he’ll believe in them for a little longer. 

During the day it is easy to forget about Snoke. When Hux barks at his soldiers stiffly aware of his own non-existent dignity, it seems even possible to laugh. Now that he has gone, however, Snoke’s face is everywhere. It lurks in the reflection of his water bowl. Stares at him from behind the eyes of the remaining soldiers. Leans forward until he can practically feel its foul breath against the feathers between his eyes.  
He's not sure if he wants Snoke to save him. Asking for forgiveness and begging like a child on his knees would certainly give him the power to save Hux. Maybe he would end this farce of a war by burning it all to the ground. He misses being human, but he can’t face the destruction he could cause. Had caused already back home in Alderaan and in the lives of those who never gave a damn about him anyway. He wants to crawl back into his skin until he remembers how much it feels like a prison. Sometimes he believed his soul was enormous and he had lain awake, afraid to burst at the seams.

Snoke understands this. He would not leave him to die without a reason, even if he made a mistake. He is a worthy apprentice and a loyal servant to the dark magic running within him. Why should he forge a weapon so powerful only to lock it away within a weak vessel like this? This has to be a test and there is the real possibility that Hux is a part of it. Even if the fool doesn’t know it himself.  
Hours go by without results. Ren watches the shadows move from one side of the camp to the other. He feels useless. Why the fuck does no one care about this? Your only General has left for battle with almost your entire battalion and has not returned yet. Seems like something one would worry about. Panic, even. It’s not that he feels even remotely aggravated by Hux absence. The man is a cockroach. He is probably sneering this very second over some poor sod. Or he’s gathering more nightmares from which he can wake up screaming. 

By the time the sun goes down, Ren feels himself grow restless. He paces over empty tables, hops down to pick at some grass, stares at the horizon until the light hurts his eyes. He should have followed Hux from the beginning. He let himself get swept away by their routine when he was too injured to fly. The voices start to swim in his head, finding shore at every mistake he has made. What would he have done if he was there with Hux? Poke at a mage so that he’ll be served as roasted chicken? 

It was impossible…This situation was impossible. Master, why did you send me here? Why did you make me so weak when you promised me strength? Aren’t these your armies? I need your guidance.

I need you.

Ren takes off before he knows what he’s doing. It feels strange to glide through the air, to leave the camp behind. From here, this place looks like nothing but a miniature imitation of life. It’s easy to forget why he’s worried in the first place. He wouldn’t know if Han and Leia themselves were walking on the narrow paths beneath him. He would not even need to know. 

His heart squeezes through the gaps in his rips and he tries not to think of them anymore. He is afraid to crash and die with the pain of remembering how little he means to them. How he has not even heard of his disappearance through rumours because they didn’t even try to look for him. He simply disappeared, and no one knows why. No one asks about Luke’s looming face above him either. 

Now he is the one coming from above.

The first thing he sees is scorched earth. From above the view is even more terrible. Corpses are strewn across the field, blood oozing into the ground below them. The smell of decay crawls inside of him and he swears it would make his eyes water if he was still a human.  
Broken weapons are intertwined with broken fingers. Cut off limbs next to cut off heads, staring unseeing into their own end. 

Ren holds his breath staring at the moving figures below. Not everyone died. A few men and women stumble aimlessly through the misery. They drag themselves along, holding their sides. Occasionally Ren sees them crouch down to roll someone onto their back, check their faces and breathing. He tries to avoid looking at the countless bodies, concentrating on the survivors only. It’s impossible that Hux is anywhere but among them. As if killing him would be that easy!

“Did…Did you find him?” One of the soldiers shouts across the field. Her hair sticks to a drying cut on her forehead. Her split lip is twitching into what she apparently thinks is a composed expression.

“No.” The answering soldier stares down at a severed hand. He seems to have been turned into living stone.

“Keep looking!”

She limps away looking for whoever it is they’re trying to find. Ren assumes she likes to be in control of her emotions because she’s not crying. Actually, she doesn’t seem to be feeling much at all. Exhaustion overcoming her like a wound to deep to press a cloth against. 

Ren circles the field a few times when he suddenly realizes that there is only one person important enough to look for. Ren grows cold. He loses control of his wings for a moment and dips toward the ground. No. Where is Hux? They did not let their only General die in a fucking meaningless battle like this, did they? His master would have foreseen this! Is this not why he sent him here –Did he fail his only purpose?

The smell becomes unbearable. He cannot stay, he cannot leave either. He has to mow through every single body and find Hux. Find his breath and beating heart. Find his fingers and force them through his feathers until he’s alive again. He should have never let him go. He should have tried to tell him who he is!

No! Control yourself, he thinks. There is still a chance that Hux has survived this battle. He looks over to a pile of rotting bodies on a shabby cart. There are still countless of soldiers lying face down in the grass. Ren glides past them, they are not people anymore. Not now. Maybe they weren’t ever if it makes this hellscape easier bear. His heart has grown teeth and its mauling his insides.

He doesn’t remember stumbling upon a body with ginger hair. He only remembers screaming until his throat gives out. Screaming for these fools to return. For Hux to wake up. For his own damn body to comply and give him arms to carry Hux away with. Ren presses his beak against Hux’s face. His eyes are closed but his skin is pale and bloodless. Ren is not even sure if he can feel breath against his thick coat of feathers. Please. Please, no…

Suddenly the woman is by their side, shouting for her comrades to take a look at what she found. Ren feels like he is about to lose consciousness with relief when they deem Hux worthy of saving. 

“The General is still alive!” She exclaims in surprise. 

Why is she so surprised, Ren wants to scream. Of course Hux is alive! He’ll be fine. In a few days, Ren thinks, he’ll be back to his overbearing self. Only that’s a lie. As they carry Hux away, Ren gets a clear view of his injuries. He is bleeding badly. There is a frazzled stump where once his leg had been. His head hangs limply, lips bloodied and blue at the same time. Ren’s heart has apparently finished eating…Why else would he feel so emptied out? 

It only gets worse from there.

 

He spends all day and all night at Hux’s bedside to watch him cry about his mother or scream at nothing in particular. He is deathly pale by now, heat radiating off him in waves. Nevertheless, Ren tries to comfort him by cooing softly. What else is he supposed to do? He doesn’t even have hands to hold a wet cloth against Hux’s burning forehead. No voice to tell him that everything is going to be alright. No fist to shake at those fucking imbeciles unable to save him. Ren feels like he is in denial. Hux vomits in the morning and is can’t lift his head by nightfall, too weak to even whimper when they stick a needle with ominous liquid up his arm. 

Ren doesn’t care what happens to Hux, as long as he comes back. A missing leg isn’t going to be much of a problem. It’s good actually! Let’s get him out of this war! Bring him to safety! Home to where he can write his letters in peace. 

It is sometimes that Ren finds himself fantasizing about this life. Especially after Hux stops talking nonsense but becomes quiet instead. He then imagines a little house at the edge of a forest. It would be too fucking green and they’d be so annoyed. Ren would be a person again, of course. He would cook a rich stew for Hux who for the life of him doesn’t know how to feed himself. But Hux would appreciate it. He would lean over Ren’s shoulder and examine the contents of the pot. He would then sit down and write to his mother. Maybe they’d even expect her at one point to come over for dinner.  
In these little fantasies, Hux looks happy and healthy and he sleeps well. Han and Leia on the other hand, don’t exist. Ren can’t handle imagining a world where they are back in his life. How would he even return to being their son when he doesn’t remember ever being that person in the first place? He can’t feel guilty about this.

There is, however, shame crawling up his throat for the fact that Snoke doesn’t have a place in these fantasies either. It makes him feel unthankful, so he quickly returns to rubbing his beak against Hux’s sunken cheeks.

It's when he watches Hux helplessly dry heave, struggling to breathe, that someone grabs him and pulls him away from the bedside. The shock goes through him as if he was already half expecting the mages to march into the camp. He struggles within the soldier’s grip fluttering his wings wildly, scratching with his feet, trying to tear a piece out of their fucking hand. No! They don’t understand! He has to stay with Hux! If Ren leaves his side for only a moment, he might be blown away by the next stray wind. He’s too frail to survive.

It doesn’t seem like the soldier cares. They carry him away, muttering about wild animals being taken down. Ren has to admit that this is an effective threat. He can’t defend himself in this body, no matter how many times he nips at someone’s finger. It wasn’t worth his neck being wrung, and Ren can’t imagine dying here. While Hux is being dragged away into a darkness he can’t see.  
They sit him down on a table before grabbing his talon to strap a message to it. The band is too tight and he yelps, hating the feeling of being moved against his will. Of someone holding him down as if he’s just an object. It reminds him of kneeling in front of Snoke who’d grab his face to force eye-contact on him. Why can’t he vomit…?

 

If he’d known who the letter is addressed to, he’d surely have tried. Horror seizes him by the throat. He wants to escape, wants to leave this fucking camp and soldiers, hide from Snoke who knows about this. This is supposed to be a test, isn’t it? Why can’t he prove his loyalty by mowing through armies of mages, behind him a trail of blood at whose end Hux would be waiting. Safely.  
No. He does understand. He knows he’ll have to trail the path of the worst possible pain. The darkness will melt the weak flesh away, reforming him anew. If he does this. If he trusts in Snoke’s wisdom, he will never have to feel like this again. 

Therefore, he flies.

The end of the war must be coming soon. The troops have been diminished. No one believes in a happy outcome and he heard soldiers around the camp, moaning, crying, sending frantic letters of goodbye by pigeon and various merchants hoping to earn a dime through all this misery.  
Ren doesn’t know when Snoke plans to make his entrance. When he’d come and safe his armies and Ren himself along with them. Back then, he’d conclude that this was somehow his fault for not being the willing tool his master has taught him to be. Now he slowly realises that even a tool is only as good as the craftsman who wields it. It’s difficult to admit when he can’t really afford doubts. Not like this. Trapped between the image of his childhood home- Alluring, fading – and the quietly whispered promise of someone finally drawing all the pain out of the places where muscles have been interwoven with terror. Leia and Snoke. And Luke. And maybe they’re all the same somewhere…

 

His journey takes days as the weather changes around him. The cold air prickles in his lungs and somehow, he enjoys the feeling of catching snowflakes in his coat. When he sleeps, he tucks his head underneath his wings for warmth. And sometimes he finds the odd fruit weathering the icy storm. They taste sour and awful, making him think of the stale bread and cheese Hux used to feed him with. Hux. Ren can’t make himself think too long about the possibility of him dying in his absence. He’d been so weak when he left. It wouldn’t be the first thing he’d ever lose.

He had expected it to feel weirder when the imposing castle of the Organa dynasty grows over the horizon. The shape is familiar but too much of a shadow to trigger any memories of warm hands and late bedtime stories. Maybe it’s because he has never seen it from the eyes of a bird, looming high above the world. It’s when he lands on that windowsill, right in front of the negotiation room, that he remembers. 

Leia is sitting at the end of a long, polished table. Her hands are folded underneath her chin as she stares of into her next move. She looks old. Older than he remembers her face when she leans over to give him a good night’s kiss. He knew back then, always, that she wouldn’t be there in the morning to greet him.  
She isn’t alone this time. A young man with tousled curls is leaning over an empty chair. He seems to babble casually, as if he has the right to be there by her side. An equal, not a soldier. It makes bile rise in his throat. He hates this man who lifts a corner of his mouth, apparently trying to encourage her. Who wouldn’t be put off by the way his eyes shift to the window, setting his gaze on Ren as if he’s nothing more than a damned carrier Pidgeon?!

Leia looks up. She’s right there, staring at him. Only a thin, breakable layer of glass between them. Ren’s chest is swelling, his heart blowing up, about to burst from the words he just can’t say, human tongue or no. She gets up and walks, her gentle eyes still on him. She knows, Ren thinks, unreasonably. Insanely. She knows. She’ll pick him up and press her lips to the side of his beak. What have they done to her child? She’ll know and she’ll fix this. Ren flutters his wings, nervously. Not sure if he wants to escape her grip or throw himself against her chest. When she outstretches her hand, he is almost ready to nuzzle it.  
But she doesn’t try to pet him. She removes the paper from his talon and turns around as if there was nothing wrong with it. She doesn’t see him. He shrinks until he feels like disappearing.

Meanwhile, Leia’s eyes move from line to line. Her expression goes from tense to worried to resolute within seconds. The stranger comes closer, leaning over her shoulder to peek into the letter. “Ha!” He exclaims “They’re giving up?”

Leia folds the paper once, shooting him a warning glance. Ha! So there is a boundary to be overstepped at least. “Don’t be so sure of that. This could be a ruse to lull us into security.”  
The guy swipes her concerns away with broad strokes of his hand. Ren hates him a little for that smug grin. “What? No! Have you seen how we fought in that battle? We utterly destroyed them! They have no choice but to surrender and they know it.”

Ren thinks about Hux’s lifeless body. He’s right. Clearly there’s no other way for their troops than to give up. 

Leia just sighs. They’ve had this conversation before. “It is not always so easy, Poe.”

“Not always, no! But this time, it is!” He takes a step into her direction, his voice grows louder. Ren gets the uneasy sense that he doesn’t like to be opposed.

Leia is not fazed by how Poe is growing taller in front of her. She strides over to the table, takes a quill in her hand and begins to write. “Well…We’ll see about that.”  
Poe immediately follows her. Even if Ren stretches his neck as far as possible, there’s no way for him to see what the letter is saying without getting closer to his mother. Shit.

Poe barks out a short laugh, forcing Ren to fight down the itch to pick his eyes out.

Before Leia can even direct him to lift his talon, Ren does so like the trained pet he’s become. She smiles at him and finally runs her hand over the feathers on his back. Her palm is heavy and calloused. Heat rises into his head as he realizes how much he enjoys her touch. Even if it comes with the humiliation of not being recognized, he never wants her to stop. 

No.

What is he even thinking? He has to protect Hux from the onslaught of these monsters! He has to deliver letters to be loyal to the one person who’d do the same for him. And as he tales off, refusing to take any of her offerings of food and water, he feels proud of his resistance Her presence makes him weak and he can't afford to lose sight of what's important to him. Not with all this fucking war. Not for someone who'd replace him with just about anyone.

 

 

By the time Ren arrives at the camp, all strength has left him. His body is too heavy for his cramping wings, it drags him downward until he flops onto the empty makeshift table where the soldiers normally eat. He can’t lift his head. The blood in his veins is thick and his heart is bludgeoning his chest with the effort to pump it through him. It’s strange, all his thoughts are swimming away. He doesn’t want to catch them either. Why…Remembering is pain. That’s probably why his parents choose not to do it. She could look right into his eyes and see nothing, because forgetting is so easy. 

The ground is beginning to disappear beneath him. He wonders why he’s floating off into the distance before he can realise that someone is carrying him away. They’ll probably chop off his head and have him roasted over the fire. Food is sparse after all and what else will he be worth without Hux. Without Leia. Without the message they took away from him. He has nothing left to offer.

And then everything else stops to matter as well.

The world comes and goes after that. He feels like he’s flickering in and out of existence, undecided on which side to stay. There are voices all around him. His head is pulsing, his wings twitching at his sides. Someone is saying Hux’s name. Hux! He’s alive or they wouldn’t be talking about him like this. Right?  
The thought runs after itself, biting into his mind until it’s all he ever knew. Hux is alive. Hux will pick him up and love him again. He’s just a bird, but the darkness is approaching fast. He has probably failed Snoke’s test. He’s not a worthy student and the past has broken every bone in his body anyway. What good will all of this do? He wants to be touched. 

The voices become sharper now. They cut through him with ease. His mind is soft as butter after all.

“She really accepts our surrender?”

Leia. They’re talking about his mother.

Another voice answers, more hushed than the first one. “Quiet! They’ll have our heads with talk like this. She’ll only get us out of this fucking war if we give her Snoke and Hux.”

“But we have no access to the king!”

“Doesn’t matter! Because it will be pretty easy to get our hands on the general.”

“What do you mean?” The man sounds scared now, but Ren detects an undercurrent of strained excitement. He knows exactly what his partner means.

“Hux is half-dead anyway. He’s practically worthless and can’t protect us, with one leg or two. We’ll grab him and head for Alderaan.”

A tiny gasp. “You think she’ll take us in?”

“This war is already lost. I won’t fucking die here. I can’t! If we bring Hux, she’ll know we come in good will. Maybe that’ll give them reason to stop all this fighting, too!”

A pause. Ren’s heart is beating hard now. He holds his breath. He can’t believe these fucking pieces of shit are considering to rat Hux out!

“How will we leave?”

“Merchants. Tomorrow morning, they’ll bring weaponry and some food over. We’ll bribe them to take us along.”

Ren opens his eyes to gleam at the traitors. They’re hunched over in a corner of the tent, illuminated by the barest flicker of candlelight. He recognises the sunken face of the first one. It’s Stridan. The other one he’s never seen before, not that it actually matters. Ren’s bones are itching, rage making him tingle from head to talons. If he wasn’t in this pathetic form, he’d get up to rip their heads off with his bare hands. No one can get to Hux without having to go through him first. 

Although it might not mean much now, he knows how to prevent himself from losing anything else tonight.

 

It’s harder to wake Hux up than he thought. He wants to place his hands on both of his cheeks, lift his head and kiss his brow. He wants to lie on Hux’s chest to feel the soft rise of his breath, listen to his heartbeat, thank him for still being there. But there’s no time for sentimentalities! Ren can’t let himself get swept away by these urges. Even if Hux’s face still seems to be hidden underneath a death mask, he has to warn him somehow. He picks at Hux’s cheek, holding onto Leia’s letter in his claw. It takes forever for Hux to stir, open his eyes and blink into the night above them.

Hux’s head lolls to the side, weak enough to startle Ren into thinking he might have fainted again. There is a putrid smell in the air, he can only hope doesn’t come from the wound of Hux’s missing leg. 

“You…” He whispers, barely audible. Astounding how one syllable can carry an avalanche of emotion. Ren doesn’t know what they mean, but he wants to bury himself in them forever.

Instead, he cocks his head to the side, pressing the letter against Hux’s nose. 

“What is this?” Hux asks, aiming for the paper with shaking fingers.

Read it! He screams in his head. Don’t be dull, we both know you’re better than that!

Hux’s eyes seem small and tired as they hop from one line to the next. The last bit of colour drains out of him like water from a leaking cup.

“What…”

There is no time, Ren wants to say. Collect yourself later! You have suspected them to turn against you for a long time, so know how to act accordingly!

Ren needs a few moments to realise that Hux doesn’t seem paralysed with shock. His green eyes settle into what Ren can only interpret as acceptance. You got to be kidding me?!

“So be it…” He whispers, letting the paper glide to the floor as he rests his arm over his eyes. 

Ren just stares. This is the worst thing he’s ever seen. Hux never gives up. They kick him into the dirt, he’ll keep on crawling. They hit him hard enough to know out a tooth, he’ll spit blood into their faces. Now, there’s nothing left of his fighting spirit. No goal. No hope. When they hacked off his leg, they amputated the spark in his eyes. Ren won’t tolerate this behaviour, so he helps him the only way he knows how to.

By starting to peck at his face.

Hux begins to struggle immediately, flailing his arms to shove Ren away. “No…Stop…What are you doing? Have you lost your god damn mind?”

No. Ren feels quite sane actually. This might be the most sensible decision he’s ever made. He pulls at Hux’s hair, nips at the sleeve of his dirty shirt, flutters his wings until the dust collects in Hux’s lashes.

Hux coughs, fighting back weakly. At least he made him fight back.

“What do you want me to do?” He asks. His voice is rising above himself in this minute, eyes glaring with fire. “I am useless like this. I have lost everything. Nothing matters anymore, you stupid animal!”

Ren stops. Spit it out if it helps you move on, but don’t give up like this. Don’t leave me alone in the middle of a war. No…Don’t leave me alone at all.

There is a silence between them. Heavy. Yet not final. Wetness shimmers on Hux’s cheek. It seems only natural rub it away with his beak. How would Hux’s tears feel against his fingers?

“I can’t fight like this.”

That’s true.

“I can’t rule like this.”

How about you concentrate on survival first?

“I can’t help anyone…”

You can help me. Hasn’t that become your thing? Mending my bones? Getting rid of your father just when he is about to kill me? Can’t you help me again? Won’t you do this one thing? Won’t you just live and leave the rest to me?

Ren knows that’s ridiculous, but it feels right to think it. 

It’s eerie how Hux looks at him with renewed interest, as if there was an inherent connection translating a silent exchange.

“Where would I even go?” Hux sounds defeated. Not by death or his injury, but by the overwhelming will of a bird.

Ren flutters once, glad he asks. He flies away to get some coins from the chest in Hux’s tent before dropping them into Hux’s lap.

Hux stares, then smiles softly as he begins to understand. By the break of dawn, the merchants will arrive again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to know more about my updates and schedule, you can also follow me on Twitter: @PointyHux


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